


Daren't Believe

by ardentaislinn



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: A North and South AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Class Differences, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentaislinn/pseuds/ardentaislinn
Summary: Jemma Simmons is uprooted from her privileged upbringing in Southern England and moved to the industrial Scottish town of Milton, far from all she’s ever know. In Milton, she clashes with people from both sides of the social divide - particularly handsome and charismatic mill owner Leo Fitz.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SuburbanSun for the beta!

**Chapter 1**

 

**A northbound train, somewhere in England, 1850**

The train sped inexorably northward, drawing Jemma even further from all she had ever known. No words had been spoken for near on an hour. Jemma had vowed to herself that she had complained her last to her father. The rattle of the carriage, the crinkle of brittle pages as her father perused his Bible, and her mother’s occasional cough were the only sounds in the cramped train car.

The skies grew endlessly darker, and the landscape more grey, as the train made its way across the border and deeper into the unknown country of Scotland.

Jemma didn’t know what to expect in the town of Milton. She had not had time to prepare herself properly for this move. Her father’s resignation from his position as a respected pastor in Helston, and from the Church entirely, had taken both her and her mother by surprise. His unwillingness to discuss his reasons for leaving had only frustrated her further. Instead, he had decided to take them out of her idyllic small town in England’s south, where he, and therefore his family, commanded the respect and deference of all the villagers. Now, they were travelling north into a completely unknown situation.

“The latest letter from Mr. Fitz, who has engaged my services as a tutor, implies that we may need to wait a few days before being able to move into our new accommodations. I am under the impression that he is finding it difficult to secure something suitable for us.” Her father had finally looked up from his reading, deigning to inform them of this latest change. His expression held no hint of an apology for not informing them of this sooner.

Jemma’s mother coughed rather pathetically in reply. Jemma reached across the carriage for her hand, but turned to her father.

“If he is incapable, then I shall take over that duty when we arrive. I’m sure there must be something that suits our needs.” Even she could hear the sulkiness of her tone.

“Jemma,” her father admonished gently. “We should be grateful for Mr. Fitz’s help. He’s a very busy man.”

Mrs. Simmons coughed again, louder this time.

“See, Father. Mother is ill. She needs a safe place to rest. If this Mr. Fitz did not have the time or inclination to secure us suitable accommodations, then he should not have offered.”

“Jemma, I am not sure what is ailing you, but this behaviour is very unlike you.”

It was the kindness in her father’s eyes that truly ashamed her. “I’m sorry, Father.”

She sat back, silently promising herself that she would think more positively from now on. It was not this Mr. Fitz’s fault that she had been dragged away from her life and all she knew.

\---

The arrival at the Milton train station soured Jemma’s good intentions.

The smog hung thick in the air, and misery seemed to coat everything she saw, from the buildings to the people. The distant clatter of machinery followed them as they made their way down the narrow, worn streets in a hired carriage.

It wasn’t until they were shown to their rooms in the inn that Jemma found a positive aspect to focus on. While the interiors were worn and unfashionable, they were clean and well-tended. It was clear that despite appearances, the owners took pride in their establishment.

Still, Jemma was frustrated, and chose to go for a walk as soon as she had seen her mother settled by the fire. She kept her head down, watching her feet for any puddles or other detritus that one would not wish to step on.

In her distraction, she must have taken an unexpected turn, as Jemma soon realised she did not know the way back. Just as she began to panic, a whistle sounded. Seconds later, men and a few women of varying ages but with a unified appearance of roughness spilled from the nearby buildings, catching her up in a current of human bodies. If she did not move, she would be trampled.

Her heart began pounding in terror as she was crushed amongst the sea of people. She could feel her breath coming faster, drawing in the unpleasant smells of her surroundings.

A noise of distress escaped her, and she began looking around for a safe anchor to latch onto, but there wasn’t a friendly face in the crowd. No one was paying any attention to her at all.

Until a rough hand grabbed her, dragging her out of the flow of people.

She took a moment to compose herself before looking up at her rescuer. A middle-aged man, stout and smudged with dirt, looked down at her with a frown. Jemma clutched her shawl tighter around her, comforted by its meagre protection.

“You shouldn’t go wandering around like that when the whistle blows. We’ve worked long, hard days, and want to get home to our families.” His accent was gruff and difficult to decipher.

“Thank...thank you,” Jemma stammered. “I appreciate the advice, Mr…?”

“Just Coulson, ma’am. No need for the ‘mister’.”

With a tip of his workman’s cap, he went to turn away.

“Wait!” Jemma said, digging into her purse. She produced a few shillings, holding them out to the man in thanks. He frowned at her, clearly torn between amusement and offence.

“No need for that,” he said eventually, before he finally turned away.

Jemma looked around to see that the crowd had cleared; only a few stragglers not as hurried to get home remained.

She climbed a set of steps to give herself a vantage point, eventually distinguishing the way back to the inn.

That night, she lay restless beneath her covers, as she dreamed of being swept away by a dark tide.

\---

“Mr. Fitz has sent over a list of properties for us to view this morning,” Jemma’s father announced over breakfast. “He has arranged for one of his men to meet us there.”

Jemma looked closer at her father, struck by the weariness of his voice. “You look tired, Father. Perhaps you should rest this morning. I’ll go to the properties.”

He let out a breath, looking more relieved than Jemma had expected. “Perhaps it would be best if I stay with your mother,” he agreed. It occurred to Jemma that perhaps her father was more burdened by his decision than he had intimated to her.

“Certainly, Father. I know what to look for. Don’t worry about a thing.” She placed her hand over his and squeezed comfortingly.

\---

Jemma dragged herself up the staircase of the fourth property she had seen that morning, anger increasing with every step. The man promised by Mr. Fitz had been nowhere to be seen, so she had been forced to talk her way into each property in order to have a look around. The suspicion in the eyes of the potential landlords was not helped by the fact that none of the properties were suitable.

This one she already knew would not work - too many stairs for her mother to climb. But she could hear voices in a room at the top, and was drawn towards them like a moth to a flame.

“I’m sure it’ll do,” said a man’s voice, gruff and confident. “A disgraced pastor can’t ask for much, can he? I’m sure he’ll be grateful for what he’s given.” A second man joined in the riotous laughter.

“So the rumours are true?” asked the second voice.

“Too mysterious not to be. Well, why else would he leave a good position, uproot his wife and child, and come all this way north?”

Jemma stepped into the room, her cheeks blazing with anger.

“If Mr. Fitz allows his employees to speak so ill of those he would claim as a friend and colleague, then I can’t imagine we want his services in securing a suitable abode.” She was holding onto her temper with the barest of threads.

“Miss, I didn’t mean-”

“Take me to him,” she said impulsively.

“Excuse me?”

“Take me to this Mr. Fitz. He can explain himself in person,” Jemma said impulsively. “Now,” she added firmly, when the man hesitated.

Shocked into action, the man moved to leave the room, eyeing her questioningly as he passed.

She followed him down a number of side streets, until the man stopped in front of a massive gate. It was at least three times Jemma’s height, and almost as wide, intimidating all who passed it with its solid, immoveable appearance. Jemma wondered at its owner, and whether he had any of the same characteristics.

A faded name, built into the stone with heavy iron, proclaimed it to be Fitz’s Mill.

Her companion banged heavily on the gates and stepped back. Jemma waited until she heard the clank of keys in the lock and a smaller door built into the gate swung open. A giant of a man stood there, filling up so much space she couldn’t see through the doorway. Taking a deep breath to steady her courage, Jemma stepped forward, but the man who had led her there spoke first.

“Mack, this is Miss Simmons. She is wanting to see the Master.”

The man known as Mack eyed her up and down. Giving nothing of his thoughts away, he stepped back, allowing her to pass through. He dismissed the other man with a tilt of his head, before swinging the door shut and locking it behind her with a solid clunk. Jemma shivered, pulling on her justifiable anger with Mr. Fitz to warm the place that cold fear had trickled into.

The gate had led her into a large courtyard. Few people were about, and the drizzle of rain that had begun surely did not encourage others to join their numbers. The heavy clack and clank of machinery sounded behind many of the brick walls surrounding her. A lone white flake drifted by, and Jemma held out her hand to catch it, entranced by its purity in such a dirty, grey place. When it landed on her glove, she realised that it wasn’t snow; it was a small puff of cotton. It must have escaped from inside the mill.

Jemma followed Mack across the courtyard, distracted by the muted thud of her walking boots against the brick paving. He led her up a flight of steps and into a small waiting area. Through the glass wall, Jemma could see a tidy, functional office, but no Mr. Fitz.

Mack paused in the doorway, the door half-closed behind him. “Mr. Fitz will be with you in a moment,” he told her, before shutting her in.

Jemma glanced at the clock, then strode over to the empty seats to wait. After a few minutes, her anger had cooled into irritation. But the longer she was made to wait, the quicker her fury returned, until Jemma was pacing about the room, her frustration building with every step.

Unable to take it much longer, Jemma threw open the door to the office and rushed out, determined to find him on her own. In the courtyard, she looked around, unsure where to start. A movement caught her eye up in the top window, but the weak glare of the sun hit it at such an angle that she was unable to see if there was someone watching her. The prickle on the back of her neck told her that there was.

She found the only partially-open door and slid it aside with some effort, the wood heavier than she had expected. Inside, she found more of the white cotton floating through the air, drifting and swirling in an effortless dance. It was like flurries of snow indoors. Jemma had never seen the likes of it before.

A commotion up ahead drew her attention. She walked down the aisle towards it, conscious of the people to her right who stared at her as they operated their heavy machines. She glanced their way and caught the eye of a pretty dark-haired girl only a year or two younger than her. The woman smiled, and Jemma found herself smiling back.

It was then that two figures came around the corner. A tall man with a self-satisfied smirk was being shoved towards the doorway by a smaller man with a fearsome scowl.

“If I find you in my mill again, I will  _ tear you apart _ . Is that clear?” the shorter man yelled at the taller one.

“You’re worse than that Captain I had in the Navy,” he sneered. “You know, the one who got set adrift by his own crew?” He clearly wasn’t at all intimidated by the man she presumed to be Fitz.  Still, he let himself be chivvied towards the door.

“You were  _ smoking _ in my mill, Ward. After I warned you what would happen. Let’s see if any of the other Masters will hire you now,” he practically spat, vibrating with an intensity of anger Jemma had scarcely seen before.

Anger darkened Ward’s face, and Jemma saw a flash of something ugly behind his genial facade. “You’d let a man starve?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

Fitz’s expression never wavered. “If that’s what it comes to,” he growled.

Ward took an aggressive step towards Fitz, his fist rising. Jemma didn’t know whether to be afraid for the smaller man, as he didn’t seem to be afraid for himself. Just as Jemma felt sure that Ward was about to throw a punch, Mack stepped in behind Jemma.

“Ward,” was all he said, letting his size, not his voice, do the threatening.

Ward froze and lowered his fists. He looked angrier in his thwarted violence.

Fitz looked away from Ward for the first time and caught sight of Jemma. “What’s she doing here?” he asked, the fury he’d directed at Ward leeching into his voice. Jemma flinched, never having been on the receiving end of such anger.

“Get her out!” he yelled, not giving her a chance to explain. “She shouldn’t be here!”

Jemma’s heart pounded as Fitz strode towards them all. She didn’t give herself a chance to find out what he would do; she turned away as Mack grabbed her elbow with more gentleness than she would have expected. He escorted both her and Ward towards the entrance to the Mill, Ward with considerably more force than he had shown her. As she passed the young woman from before, she saw her eyebrows were raised - but with shock or horror, Jemma couldn’t be sure. With that, she was whisked into the courtyard and towards the gate.

Ward allowed himself to be dumped outside with little ceremony, and clearly decided to save his remaining pride for another day. He skulked off with only a single, murderous glare behind him.

“Maybe another day, Miss,” said Mack, recapturing her attention as he slowly shut the gate door on his apologetic smile. Jemma managed a nod and not much else before the gate clanged shut, thwarting her in her quest.

She still hadn’t managed to secure accommodations. And if that truly had been Mr. Fitz, he didn’t at all seem like the helpful sort.


	2. Chapter 2

On her walk back, to distract herself from all she had seen in the mill and from the drizzle of rain dampening her hair, Jemma thought of the houses she had seen that day. If her desperation to secure a property stemmed from a desire never to see Mr. Fitz again, well, she couldn’t blame herself for that.

There was one she decided might do after a change in wallpaper and a washing of the curtains, and she resolved to tell her father the instant she got home. Though, for reasons that she couldn’t quite explain, she chose to leave out her encounter with the unpleasant Mr. Fitz.

\---

They were moved in the next day.

Jemma allowed a day for the family to get settled before she started discussing a change in decor. She acquired a stack of pattern books from a local shop and gave her mother time to choose a paper for the walls.

“I don’t suppose we could hire a girl to help with the cooking and cleaning?” Jemma asked hopefully that evening.

Her father answered with a sad smile and a shake of the head. Her mother looked away, and Jemma took that as a sign that she was holding her tongue.

With no servant, and no income with which to support one, Jemma resolved that she would be the one to take on those duties. She couldn’t very well allow her sick mother to do such things. Her parents had reached the age where they deserved comfort. 

Her first task was washing the curtains, which she started at dawn on their first full day in their new house. It was an unexpectedly laborious task.

Years of dust caked the fabric, and it took many tubs of water to disperse it. And once soaked, the fabric became so heavy she could barely lift them to hang them to dry. The grey, overcast sky didn’t help. Nor did the harsh lye coating her skin and drying her hands to the point of painful cracking.

When she was finally done, weary from the day’s labour and barely able to keep her feet, Jemma stepped inside - and was immediately confronted by the last man she ever wanted to see again.

Mr. Fitz rose to his feet as she entered the room, looking much cleaner and more presentable than when she had last seen him. Her father stood as well, moments after.

“Jemma, this is my friend, Mr. Fitz. The one I was telling you about,” her father said, smiling obliviously between the two.

Jemma wiped her cracked hands on her apron, and tried to smooth her reflexive frown for her father’s sake.

“Hello, Mr. Fitz,” she said calmly, expecting him to play along with the fiction that they were strangers.

“I’m afraid Miss Simmons and I have already met,” Mr. Fitz said, his voice steady, but his accent rough.

“Jemma, you never said!” her father admonished.

Jemma opened her mouth to defend herself, and soften the truth for her father, but Mr. Fitz spoke first.

“I’m afraid it was under less than pleasant circumstances. Miss Simmons found me in the midst of firing a worker who had been caught smoking in the mill.”

Jemma felt her blood boil at his utter lack of shame or remorse for his behaviour. She couldn’t hold her tongue.

“I saw you threaten a defenceless man with bodily harm. A man who was not your equal in station!”

Mr. Fitz took a step forward, his expression stormy. “That man you so casually defend has repeatedly put the lives of all those people in that mill at risk. I warned him many times about the dangers of smoking, and of his other trouble-making behaviour.”

“It hardly seems like an appropriate reaction to make it impossible for him to seek other employment. He may have a family to feed!”

“He doesn’t. But you don’t understand-”

“No. I don’t.”

Words edged with frustration burst from his lips. “When you see hundreds of bodies laid out on a hillside after having been blackened by the fire that ripped through their mill, you might endeavour to understand my reaction. Men, women,  _ children _ died that day. And that was an accidental flame.”

Jemma gasped, never having heard of such a horrific thing. She couldn’t find the words, had no idea what to say.

Evidently Mr. Fitz had had enough. His jaw was clenched, his expression hard. He picked up his hat, tilted his head to Mr. Simmons in goodbye, and then bowed a little deeper to Jemma.

“Goodbye, Miss Simmons. Mr. Simmons.” He said nothing more before striding out of the door.

Jemma blinked repeatedly, trying to understand the emotions roiling through her. Eventually, she recognised anger and latched onto that.

“How dare he speak to me of such things? Does he have no manners, no knowledge of correct etiquette? And not even an apology passed his lips.”

“Jemma…” her father began.

Unwilling to hear what he had to say, Jemma fled the room.

\---

The next day, Jemma felt more like herself. Her anger at Mr. Fitz had settled to a general dislike of him. His outburst, while not something a true gentleman would do, became understandable to her with the benefit of hindsight.

Jemma spent the morning with her mother, who had been confined to her bed by a temporary worsening of her cough. The soothing presence of the gentle lady was a balm for her soul.

She wished she could tell her mother about her confusion with regards to Mr. Fitz, but she didn’t want to distress her. She also thought of her cousin, Edith, back in London, but knew that she would worry if Jemma told the truth. Instead, she wrote a long letter full of half-truths and misdirections. She wondered if she had ever felt quite so alone back in Helston.

Unable to stay inside the house much longer, Jemma resolved to go for a walk to explore. She spied a path further up the hill with a little greenery on it. Having been surrounded by grey for three days, the promise of a new colour sparked excitement within her, and she set off at a brisk pace.

A few steps into the area, she realised that what she had mistaken for a park was actually an old, untended graveyard. While initially put off by the morbidity of such a location, the smell of fresh lawn drew her to stay.

Jemma had nearly reached the top of the hill when the chatter of voices crested the rise. Seconds later, two women came into view, laughing at something the shorter one had said. Jemma instantly recognised her as the one she had seen in the mill that day.

Both women stopped laughing the instant they caught sight of Jemma. They picked up their pace, obviously meaning to pass her, but Jemma called out.

“Excuse me! Hello,” she said to them. The women slowed and eyed her warily.

“I’m Jemma Simmons. We met at the mill the other day, did we not?”

“Meet’s a bit of a strong word. But I saw you there,” the shorter one said. The taller one nudged her with her elbow, halting her words.

“May I know your names?”

“Why?” asked the taller one.

“I thought I could visit you. Maybe bring a basket.” Jemma had often loaded her basket with goods for her father’s parishioners and visited them whenever she was able. She would hate to give up the habit now. Perhaps it would do her some good to get back to her old routine.

The two women burst out laughing again, catching each other’s eye and sharing some kind of inside joke. The smaller woman broke off from her laughing with a fit of coughing. Jemma didn’t miss the taller woman’s concerned look as she placed a gentle hand on her companion’s back.

“What would we do with a basket?” the taller one asked with a confused smile. “We’ve little enough to put in it.”

“I’m Daisy,” said the shorter of the two. “And this is Bobbi. We stay with Mr. Coulson.”

“He’s your father?” Jemma asked, remembering the man who had rescued her from the crowd.

Daisy shook her head. “He just looks after us all. We’re going that way now. He works at Garrett’s mill.”

“And yet you both work at Fitz’s mill?”

“I used to work there but…this one is nearer home. And the work is easier.” There was a slight hitch in Daisy’s voice that made Jemma think she wasn’t telling the truth, but she couldn’t quite work out why that would be the case.

Daisy began coughing again, her eyes watering from the force. With that, Bobbi put her arm around her friend’s waist and began guiding her along at a fast pace.

“I’ll come by soon, then, shall I?”

Bobbi gave her a long look as she passed. “You won’t come.” But her words weren’t meant to be cruel.

Jemma stood on the hillside beneath the overcast sky, watching the two women disappear back into the city.

\---

A few days later, Jemma’s mother had only just left her bed. While Jemma wanted to believe it was just the tiring journey north that had weakened her, she knew it wasn’t the only thing to blame. The smog that constantly settled over the city from the nearby factories would do no favours for one’s lungs. Particularly not those used to the clear, pure air of the south.

Jemma resented her father for moving them away from a place of happiness and comfort. She resented this town and its people for inflicting further misery on her and her family. And most of all, she resented herself for being unable to make the best of the situation she was in through no choice of her own.

It was all made more difficult by the fact that her father’s expected income from tutoring had not come to pass. Though many of the mill workers had had minimal, if any, education, they were not interested in gaining more. Their lives were already too full with work and family.

Her father had gone to the town hall to give a free lecture that Sunday, in the hope of interesting some of the locals in his services. Unfortunately, the only few who had showed up were those early to the Union meeting that followed his talk.

Much to Jemma’s frustration, Mr. Fitz was the only pupil her father currently had, or seemed likely to get in the near future. She disliked the feeling of gratitude that this engendered in her. The fact that it made her father so happy only made her resentment worse.

These were the thoughts racing through her mind as she scrubbed and cleaned the small house and everything in it.

Distracted, she bustled into the parlour, forgetting completely that her father had a lesson at that very moment. Fitz stood immediately at her entrance.

“I’m sorry,” she said, intending to leave as suddenly as she’d entered.

Fitz stepped forward. “Don’t be. I really should be on my way.”

“Oh,” Jemma murmured, surprised.

“Please don’t feel obliged,” Mr. Simmons said, his tone coloured by sadness. Jemma’s heart ached for him, and she almost begged Mr. Fitz to stay in order to keep her father company. However, the words would not pass her lips.

Mr. Fitz hesitated a moment, looking her way. When Jemma said nothing, he just bowed shortly and stepped out of the room.

The disappointment on her father’s face was obvious. Jemma turned away, unable to bear the sight. A book left on the side table caught her eye. She took one step towards it, drawn to the unfamiliar but well-loved leather cover.

“Plato,” her father said, melancholy tinging his voice. “It’s been so long since anyone could discuss Plato with me.”

Jemma’s guilt at driving his only friend away drilled into her. She shut her eyes to push the feeling aside, and quickly left the room.

\---

Fitz strode across the courtyard of his mill, thoughts still in the Simmons household. The silence of the machines permeated his internal wanderings, and he sighed. Would that he could keep the mill running longer hours, but he knew that it would bring the workers even closer to a strike.

He had heard the rumblings, and knew that one would be imminent. He also knew that the mill would be unlikely to survive if it came to pass. A few days without fulfilling the existing orders, he could manage. Anything beyond that, and his limited savings wouldn’t cover the shortfall.

He couldn’t regret the money he had invested in recent improvements, though. He knew it was the right choice. But he wished the workers could see that he simply did not have the money required to give them the pay rise they wanted.

Coulson was close, though, to convincing all the workers at all the mills to band together in his Union. Most of the other mill owners weren’t paying attention, but Fitz knew it was only a matter of time.

Maybe the moment was right to get the other owners together...

“You were at the Simmons’ again.” His mother’s voice from the darkened parlour pulled him out of his musings. He sighed at her recriminations and stepped into the room.

“Yes, I visited Mr. Simmons for a lesson. We discussed Plato.”

“Was Miss Simmons there?”

“I saw her briefly,” Fitz agreed, giving nothing away.

“You know what people are saying about that family. There are all kinds of rumours about why Mr. Simmons left the church. And now they are in reduced circumstances, Miss Simmons must know that you are the most eligible man in Milton. No doubt she is working her wiles on you.”

Fitz tried not to laugh at the idea of Miss Simmons working wiles on him. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’m in no danger from Miss Simmons.” He wished that was slightly less true. As much as he appreciated his mother’s faith in him, he was unconvinced that he was as much of a catch as she persisted in believing.

To distract her, Fitz cast his mind around for a change in subject to distract his mother. “I was thinking about our annual dinner party,” he told her.

“I suppose we’ll have to invite the Simmons’?” she asked begrudgingly.

“Of course,” Fitz said lightly. “Though are you certain we should still have it this year at all, given the circumstances?”

“We certainly should!” his mother said firmly. “We shall go on as before.”

Fitz sighed again. “You’re right, I suppose.”

The invitations went out the next day.

\---

Jemma stared at the card in her hand for a good long while before taking it to her father.

“We’ve been invited to the Fitz’s household for a dinner next week, Father,” Jemma told him, trying to sound positive about the whole affair.

Though, frankly, if it weren’t for the promise of Mr. Fitz’s company, she would be quite looking forward to the evening. It had been some time since she’d had a civilised dinner among genteel folk. In fact, she hadn’t had much company at all of late.

The joy on her father’s face at her words was enough to put any apprehension she had to rest. She could survive a night in his company, even if only for her father’s sake.


	3. Chapter 3

Feeling out of sorts, Jemma loaded up a basket full of fruits and other staples she could spare, and then went to hunt down the home of Mr. Coulson and his adopted family.

As a pastor’s daughter back in Helston, it had not been uncommon for Jemma to take baskets to members of her father’s flock. She had taken great pride in her position there, and knew exactly what had been expected of her. Charity work such as that had always comforted her. It had always clarified her place and future path.

As Jemma wandered through the narrow streets that made up the neighbourhood where the millworkers lived, she realised just how different this place was from Helston. Not only was the grey town nothing like the sunny, rural area she had once called home, but the people were different, too. They treated  _ her  _ differently. Where she had once received welcoming smiles and friendly greetings, she now got mistrustful looks and faces turned away.

It was a sobering experience, to be in such a different world.

By the time she finally reached the house that a young child had directed her to (the only person who would talk to her to give her directions), nerves had crept upon her. Though she had told the two women she would come, it did not seem that she would be very welcome.

Still, she had come all this way, and had no intention of giving up before she had even tried. She knocked on the door. A few seconds later it cracked open, revealing a pair of cautious eyes not even level with Jemma’s shoulder.

“Hello,” said Jemma kindly to the child. The door slammed shut in her face.

Jemma blinked, debating whether that was the final sign that she should return home.

She was just turning away, an odd tightness in her chest at her failure, when the door swung open again, wider this time. Daisy stood in the entryway, a welcoming smile on her face.

“Wasn’t sure we’d see you again,” she said, as she stood back and gestured for Jemma to come inside.

Jemma stepped tentatively inside, conscious of the fact that this home was unlike any she had been in before. It wasn’t that it was dirty – in fact, it was clear that someone tried very hard to keep the place clean, despite the crumbling walls and lack of proper flooring. But the ceiling was low, and there appeared to only be two rooms in the entire house. A lone window at the front of the house lit the room, barely covered by a tattered, many-times-mended curtain.

Another curtain partially obscured a bed in the far corner of the room. Jemma briefly wondered how many people it was meant to sleep.

Bobbi was sitting by the meagre fire with a small child at her feet, poking at a piece of fabric with a needle. It was obvious even from Jemma’s vantage that she couldn’t sew a stitch. She looked up when Jemma stepped in and threw the old shirt aside.

“So, I see you came after all.  _ And  _ brought a basket.” She looked down at the offending item clutched in Jemma’s arms with suspicion.

“I did,” Jemma replied gracefully, and set it on the table.

Daisy gave Bobbi a remonstrating look. “Don’t be rude to our guest, Bobbi. It was nice of her to visit.”

“ _ Is _ she our guest? Or a  _ philanthropist _ ,” she sneered, making the word sound like the highest of insults.

Before Jemma could reply, Coulson stepped in from the other room.

“Bobbi, at least find out why she’s here,” he said sternly. He turned to Jemma. “Unless you’re here thinking we need charity. In which case, no thank you.”

“I just wanted to pay a visit,” Jemma pleaded. “It is customary to bring gifts when visiting. At least, it is back home.” Shame clawed at her stomach as she uttered the half-truth. It was clear that these were proud people. Why did she think they would be grateful for her charity?

Coulson eyed her a long moment. Jemma held his stare, unsure what else to do. When the tension had been drawn as thin as the blade of a knife, he nodded, once. That was evidently a sign, as the two women relaxed. Jemma followed suit.

“What’s in the basket?” asked the small child, tugging on Bobbi’s skirts.

“Mostly just some fruit,” Jemma told her kindly. “Would you like to see?” She set it down on the kitchen table and began pulling out all the items. If anyone was suspicious of the less gift-like foods, such as flour, no one said anything.

“So, how did you meet my Daisy and Bobbi?” Coulson asked her.

Daisy piped in. “She was the one that was there that day I told you about. When Fitz sent Ward packing.”

“Ah, that fool deserved more than he got. Should have beat him to a pulp for putting everyone at risk like he did.”

Jemma didn’t know what to say to that.

The visit was short, hampered by Daisy’s coughing and lingering awkwardness. When a particularly bad fit hit upon her, Jemma left quietly, letting the family come together to get through. It was not a moment for strangers.

Still, Jemma felt lighter of heart than she had when she’d arrived, and knew her presence would not be unwelcome when she visited again.

More time must have passed than she realised, and it grew darker as she moved through the streets. As she approached their house, dodging carts and people, Jemma was surprised to see a man knocking on the front door. It took only a moment for her to realise it was Mr. Fitz, dressed in evening attire with an expertly tied cravat with a simple knot and a pristine top hat.

He hesitated a moment, his hand hovering, before taking off his hat and tucking it under his arm. He still hadn’t noticed her. Then, he smiled a small, private smile which he quickly tucked away. Jemma couldn’t understand why she thought the gesture so endearing.

Jemma saw her father open the door for Mr. Fitz, once again lamenting the lack of a maid to perform such social niceties. Jemma waited a few long minutes before letting herself in. She considered going upstairs to change, but decided it would take more effort than it was worth. Instead, she tucked some stray pieces of hair into her coiffure using the hallway mirror, and then stepped into the room.

“Oh, Mr. Fitz. I hadn’t any idea that you were due for tea this evening.” A truth, but not the whole of one.

Fitz stood immediately. “Miss Simmons, I’m glad you could join us.”

Jemma looked around at her father and mother. “I’m sorry for my rough appearance. I’ve been out visiting all day.”

“You have friends?” Mr. Fitz blurted out in obvious surprise.

Jemma held onto her temper by the finest of threads. “In fact, I do, Mr. Fitz.” The slight exaggeration would do no one any harm.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I am delighted that you have found people to spend time with here. I know Milton has not yet shown itself to best advantage where you are concerned.”

His pleading tone softened Jemma’s ire. “I find it growing on me,” she allowed. “Should I pour us some tea?” Everyone politely encouraged both the tea and change in conversation topic.

An hour later, Jemma was beginning to feel the effects of a day of ever-changing emotions. Against her will, she found herself drifting to sleep in her chair, warmed by the fire and lulled by Mr. Fitz’s passionate voice, discussing Plato with her father. It reminded Jemma of the worn book with the leather cover tucked up amongst her own things in her room.

“I’m afraid we are boring Miss Simmons with our enthusiasm for Plato,” Mr. Fitz’s voice broke into her thoughts. She sat up, desperately trying to cut through her stupor.

“Jemma is a great reader,” her father announced proudly. “She can argue Plato better than any of my students.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Mr. Fitz murmured softly.

“More tea?” Jemma asked quickly, unsure what to make of the look in Mr. Fitz’s eye.

“Please,” he replied.

Jemma focused her attention on the tea, but the conversation didn’t pick up again. She could feel his eyes on her, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

As she handed him the cup, she felt the soft brush of his fingers over hers. She inhaled, quick and breathless, and looked up, trying to ascertain if the touch was intended. The smouldering fire in Mr. Fitz’s eyes implied that it was.

She tore her gaze away with some difficulty. The rest of the tea was served before Jemma sat, still unable to meet Mr. Fitz’s eyes.

“I like the change to the wallpaper,” he said politely.

“Thank you,” her mother replied. “There wasn’t a great deal of choice here, but this is a similar shade to our drawing room in Helston.”

“Well, on behalf of Milton tastes, I am glad we almost pass muster,” Mr. Fitz replied with a tinge of humour to his voice.

“Yes. Clearly you are very proud of Milton. My husband admires its energy and its…people are very busy and industrious with their work,” Mrs. Simmons murmured.

“I can’t deny that is true. I would much rather be toiling here in success or failure than leading a dull yet prosperous life in the South. I’m not sure what I would do with slow, carefree days of ease.” His voice was so casual, so dismissive as he talked about a way of life she had lived until a few short weeks ago.

Jemma felt anger pricking at the back of her neck. “You are mistaken. You know nothing of the South. It may be a little less energetic in its pursuit of competitive trade. But, then, there is less suffering than I have seen in your mills. And for what?  _ Cotton _ . Which no one of respectability wishes to buy.”

Jemma could see the tension in his jaw as he replied, though his voice was even. “And  _ I _ may say that you know nothing of the North. We Masters are not all the same, no matter what your prejudices have led you to believe.”

“Don’t forget, I have seen the way you treat your workers. You treat them as you wish because you feel they are beneath you.” Her voice was rising but she was powerless to stop it. Her father’s restless unhappiness was palpable from across the room.

“I did what I had to in order to protect my other workers.”

“Just because you’ve been blessed with good luck and fortune does not give you the right to treat people any way you like.”

“I do know something of hardship, Miss Simmons.” He hesitated, and for once, good sense overrode Jemma’s anger. She said nothing. He began speaking again, obviously coming to some kind of decision to reveal a rarely discussed fact.

“My father died when I was young, under very miserable circumstances. He left a mountain of debt, more than I ever thought we could repay. My mother had to take me out of school so I could work. She managed so that we could put two shillings aside a week to repay those that he owed, and save enough that I could eventually own this mill. I think that my only  _ good _ luck was to have a mother with strong enough will and integrity to see us through that time. I am honoured that I can now keep her in such comfort as her age requires. I thank her every day for that early training. So, Miss Simmons, I don’t believe I was particularly blessed with either luck or fortune.”

Jemma was speechless, shamed into a particularly acute kind of misery that can only come when one knows they are in the wrong. She was also shocked by his story, never having heard of such a brutal history.

Fitz sighed. He stood, and Jemma and her parents did the same. “Come, Miss Simmons. Let us part as friends.”

He held out his hand as if for her to shake it. Jemma turned away in distress. From the corner of her eye she saw his fist clench as his hand dropped by his side.

“Well, then, I believe it is time I go. It’s been a pleasure. Thank you all for having me.”

And then he was gone.

“Jemma,” her father admonished immediately. “You could have at least shaken his hand. The gesture  is used here in all forms of society.”

“A London gentleman would never offer his hand to a lady like that, would he, Mother?” She turned to her for support, and she didn’t disappoint, shaking her head enthusiastically.

“It’s not the same here,” her father pleaded.

“And I don’t know what he was thinking, talking of his father like that,” her mother added. “For all we know, he could have died in a poorhouse!”

Her father sighed, sitting heavily on the settee behind him.

“I’m afraid it was rather worse than that.”

Jemma sat, perched on the edge of the armchair, her attention focused on her father.

“From what I understand, his father killed himself after losing a great deal of money speculating on the markets.”

Her mother gasped, but Jemma couldn’t react. She felt frozen; if she moved, she would shatter into a million tiny fragments. Regret pierced her very soul. How could she have been so callous?

“I’m sorry, Father,” she whispered, even as she knew he was not the one she needed to apologise to. “I must go to bed.”

She stood abruptly and left the room. She spent a sleepless night wondering how she could make amends.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Jemma – dull-eyed and listless after a poor night’s sleep – went to walk her father home from his weekly lecture at the town hall. She was halfway up the steps, thinking how odd it was for so many workers to be there, too, when she felt that familiar prickle on the back of her neck. She half-turned on the steps, eyes drawn to a window high up in the opposite building. There, she could just make out the proud set of Mr. Fitz’s shoulders.

He didn’t turn away, but neither did she. She couldn’t even see him clearly, but she didn’t want to turn her back on him. She wanted to communicate…something to him.

The connection was broken when a man jostled her, hurrying up the steps to his destination. Jemma blinked and continued up the stairs.

When she arrived, it was to find the hall bursting with workers, a number of whom she recognised from the Fitz mill. They were restless, shuffling in their seats and in their places against the wall, obviously waiting for something. Jemma stayed near the back, curiosity overwhelming her. She caught sight of her father, waiting by the side of the room.

After a moment, Coulson took to the makeshift stage. A cheer went up, which he shushed with a single raised hand. Jemma had never suspected that he was a leader amongst these people, but every person in the room waited with bated breath for his first words.

“This has gone on long enough,” he began. “It has been three years since the Masters promised us our pay rise.  _ Three years _ of betrayals and broken promises.  _ Three years _ of us struggling to feed our families while they sit on their fat hoards of money and do nothing.

“It’s past time that we take action. We’ve enough funds to last out this strike if we are careful. We stop work on Friday, five minutes before the bell, just like we planned. And then we stick together, until the Masters give us our due! We’ve toiled and slaved for them long enough. This time we will get fair payment for fair work. There’ll be no violence, just honest striking. And we will triumph!”

A rousing cheer went up amongst the crowd. Jemma’s heart was torn both ways. She honestly believed now that Fitz did what he thought was best for these workers, but by the same token, she had seen their lives and knew what they suffered.

She hurried out the room before the workers had stopped celebrating, emotions pulling her in all different directions.

\---

Tugged by a curiosity she could not name, Jemma found herself in front of Fitz’s mill. She couldn’t decide whether she most wanted to see her nemesis or avoid him, but she had to admit that she was curious.

The mills of Milton were its lifeblood. Nothing and no one was untouched by them. The entire culture of industry was distressingly foreign to her.

Mack let her in, and did not call her bluff when she said she was there to see the Master. She once again found herself in the courtyard, but this time, a few people milled about. They all seemed to be workers on a break, given their attire. Most were huddled in small groups, shivering in their tattered clothes, helpless against the sharp Scottish wind.

Jemma hoped to see the familiar faces of Daisy and Bobbi, but they were nowhere to be seen. Instead, Jemma approached two women that were talking animatedly about something Jemma couldn’t grasp.

“Hello,” she said.

The two stopped speaking the instant the words left her mouth, eyeing her distrustfully.

“What do you want?” asked one with a studied disinterest.

“I was wondering if you knew if Daisy or Bobbi were here today?”

Their eyes lost some of their wariness. “They don’t get breaks for another hour. We can’t all go at the same time.”

Jemma nodded. She turned to go, but then spun back to the women. “Do you enjoy working here?”

Their brows pulled down into identical frowns. “Better here than any of the other mills,” said one.

Her companion nodded. “At least we have the fan here.”

Jemma stepped forward and lowered her voice. “And yet you would strike?”

The women’s eyes widened in fear, and Jemma realised the question pushed too far.

“Miss Simmons!” Mr. Fitz’s voice called across the courtyard.

Heat flamed her cheeks, and Jemma turned to face the mill’s Master.

“Mr. Fitz. I’m sorry,” she said immediately as he reached her. She curtsied politely, the brush of skirt behind her telling Jemma that the two girls were making themselves scarce. She could admit to herself now that she had been spying on him, curious beyond measure about the man she was coming to know.

“What for? I have nothing of which to be ashamed when it comes to my workers,” he told her.

“They said that you installed a fan.”

He nodded. “It clears the cotton out of the air. It keeps their lungs healthier.”

Jemma thought of Daisy’s hacking cough and found herself grateful that Mr. Fitz had taken her into his mill. Her change in position suddenly made much more sense.

“That’s kind of you.”

He slanted a look her way. “I didn’t do it out of kindness. Healthy workers work harder and for longer.”

Jemma frowned at the mercenary statement. “Unless they strike,” she murmured, trying to provoke a reaction.

“Unless they strike,” he agreed calmly. But something dark flickered in his eyes that told her he was not as easy about the situation as he appeared.

\---

Fitz looked out over his empty, silent mill. He was restless. He had never lived a life of idleness, and to have it enforced upon him with nowhere to direct his energy was frustrating at best. He simply could not seem to get used to the empty days.

If nothing else, the strike, now nearly a week in, gave him proof of how otherwise empty his life was without work to devote himself to. He had never had the time or will to cultivate hobbies and strong friendships. Industry had consumed him.

And now, with the mill closed, he had nothing.

He wished to visit the Simmons’ again, but couldn’t be sure of his welcome. He sent a basket of fruit to the mother, after hearing that she had been unwell. But he had no wish to assume that Miss Simmons would allow him past the front door.

He didn’t blame her. At least, not much. He knew that she was not used to the ways of Milton, and he had lacked patience and understanding with that. There were many things she had yet to learn.

He didn’t entirely want her to lose her innocence of the world, or her passion about it. But he did want her to see that Milton was not all bad, if she allowed herself to acknowledge it. And it contributed to his frustrations that she did not yet seem to believe it.

A creak sounded on the floorboard outside the room, pulling him from his thoughts.

“I don’t like hearing the silence,” his mother said, her voice hushed. 

“I was just thinking the same,” FItz told her without turning.

“What will we do if the strike continues on?”

“Bring over some Irish, I suspect. The locals won’t be happy, and it will be an expense. But their wages are cheap and they’ll be grateful for the work.” He turned to see her reaction.

“Can we afford it?”

Fitz hesitate a moment. His mother already knew the answer to that question, but both of them had been too afraid to voice it aloud.

“We can’t afford not to. We aren’t fulfilling what few orders we have. The mill needs to work again, no matter who is working it. If we are careful, and nothing else goes wrong, we should survive it.”

“I regret the dinner party, now. We should have spared the expense.”

“Too late now. We shall have to live with our choices, just like everyone else.”

“You’re a good man,” his mother said, emotion giving her voice a barely distinguishable wobble. Fitz crossed the room and enfolded her in his arms.

“Only because of you. Even if we don’t make it through this strike, it won’t be the end. We can start again. We’ve done it before, and look at us now.”

She pulled out of his arms, unnerved, as always, by displays of emotions - including her own. Instead, she gave a sharp nod.

“You are absolutely right.”

She left the room, the steady clip of her boots fading into a distant room of the house. Fitz turned back to the window, once again alone with his thoughts.

\---

The strike was entering the second week by the time the Fitz's dinner party arrived. Jemma had spent much of that week visiting Daisy, Bobbi and the workers they were friends with. The suffering they were going through made her heart ache.

But to her surprise, they spoke of Mr. Fitz as a good Master. They all agreed that he was the fairest of the mill owners. His wages were better than at Garrett’s mill across town, and they were all proud of the fan he had installed to suck up the cotton in the air; a great help to the worker’s lungs, they agreed. But why, Jemma wondered, if he was so fair, did he not just raise the wages like the union asked? 

Jemma entered the Fitz’s home with not a little trepidation. She hadn’t any idea how she might be received. Would she even be allowed through the door? Would Mr. Fitz snub her? Tell the world about the awful things she’d said? Would his mother cut her publicly, resulting in her social ruination?

Jemma resolved that no matter what, she would make the effort to make amends. She didn’t have to like the man, but she could be civil. For her father’s sake, of course.

Once again Jemma felt ashamed of her earlier uncharitable thoughts as she was welcomed politely, though not warmly, by Mr. Fitz’s mother. If she knew of even half the outcomes of Jemma’s encounters with her son, her gesture was generous indeed.

Their home was about as welcoming as the Fitz matriarch. It was perfectly clean and ordered, but most of the furnishings were dark and dull. The unrelieved black of Mrs. Fitz’s mourning dress - two years out of date at least, but good quality - was matched by dark curtains and cushions and a certain harshness of atmosphere. No doubt all entirely Milton-made. It was a perfect representation of the town itself, to Jemma’s biased mind.

Jemma was yet to see Mr. Fitz, so she made conversation with his mother about the potential benefits of waterbeds for people suffering illnesses. She was distracted, though, only half listening. Waiting.

She caught sight of him through the crowd, his back to her. Jemma’s heart stuttered in her chest, and Mrs. Fitz’s voice faded from her consciousness. Now was the time.

She drifted away from Mrs. Fitz, unable to recall later whether she had even offered a polite utterance of goodbye. Instead, she had focused all her determination on Mr. Fitz. He finished his conversation - or perhaps he had sensed her coming - and so turned, eyes immediately meeting hers. Her breath hitched. Had she ever noticed how blue they were?

He took a few steps towards her, a slight wariness in his expression that couldn’t overshadow the warmth banked in his eyes.

“Mr. Fitz,” she said with a smile, and held out her hand for him to shake.

He returned her smile as his hand gently grasped hers. “Miss Simmons, welcome.”

“You see, I am learning Milton ways.”

“I hope this town has not been too much of a disappointment to you so far?”

“On the contrary, I find it is growing on me.”

Jemma carefully extracted her hand as Fitz released it. His fingertips trailed across her palm as light as a breath, seemingly reluctant to break contact. Sparks of fire travelled up her arm and settled in her stomach, and her face heated from the warmth. She pressed her lips together to stop a gasp.

Fitz, seemingly fascinated by their hands, saw none of this, for which Jemma was infinitely grateful. Confusion swirled in her mind at her strange reaction. She didn’t need Mr. Fitz to be privy to that weakness.

Thankfully for Jemma, they were both called away at the same moment, and parted with each offering a small smile.

She didn’t see him again until they sat down to dinner. He, of course, sat at the head of the table. Jemma was halfway down, across from two men she had only ever heard of - Bakshi and Garrett, the owners of the two other largest mills in Milton.

Conversation turned, as it naturally would, to the strike and the workers.

“That troublemaker Coulson works at your mill, doesn’t he, Garrett?” Bakshi asked. His smooth English tones were oddly grating to Jemma’s ears after listening to the Scottish burr for so many weeks.

“Aye,” Garrett replied. “I should have got rid of him years ago. Now he’s got all the workers thinking that he can get them higher wages.”

“I doubt they’ll still think that when they starve to death,” Bakshi murmured with an arched brow. Jemma felt ill at their callous talk of human death and misery.

Thankfully, Mrs. Fitz stepped in. “Hardly appropriate talk for the dinner table,” she admonished. Jemma nearly smiled at her in gratitude. “Miss Simmons, I hear that you have been making friends with Coulson and his strays.” She said it with an air of such unstudied casualness that Jemma knew she had been planning it all along.

So, she smiled. “Indeed, I have been paying them visits.”

“How odd. Are you siding with the strikers now?” Her gaze slanted over to her son, watching for his reaction. But Jemma didn’t dare look his way.

“I think both sides have an understandable position,” she said diplomatically.

“Perhaps…” her father began, but was cut off by the next question. No one else tried to step in. They were silent as if spellbound.

“I have heard tell that you have been bringing them food?” A muttering went around the table. Jemma frowned, not understanding what crime she had committed.

“You mean to prolong the strike?” Mr. Fitz asked, his voice steady but vibrating with some underlying emotion Jemma couldn’t name.

“Of course not!” she told him vehemently, rounding on him. “But surely to give a dying baby food is no great sin?”

“They will suffer for longer if they do not break the strike. Their union fund cannot last forever. Better to let it just play out as it will and not interfere.”

“Perhaps if you just listen to them -  _ talk _ to them - you could come to some kind of compromise,” she pleaded. Everyone on the table eyed her with suspicion.

“But if we give in now, then who is to say they won’t try this again in a month’s time? We are trying to run businesses, and cannot afford our mills to be silent like this for long stretches. If the mills close, then everyone is out of a job and we all suffer.” He spoke with a careful rationality, but Jemma could hear the clenched-jaw frustration behind his words.

“So things must continue on as they always have been?” Jemma asked, her temper rising.

“Of course not, but the time must be right to make such sweeping changes. If we raise the wages as they ask before the mill can sustain it, it will cause more problems than it will solve.”

Jemma stared Mr. Fitz down, and his implacable gaze raised her hackles further. “Well,” she began.

“You should never have spent the money to have that fan you designed installed,” Garrett said with a guffawing laugh, interrupting her. Jemma took a moment and decided she was grateful, despite the rudeness. Goodness knows what she may have said otherwise.

“It made long-term financial sense,” Mr. Fitz replied, his voice chilling by a few degrees. He didn’t elaborate. They’d clearly had this discussion before.

“Who cares if your workers die younger? There are always more where they came from.”

“It’s called loyalty, Garrett. You look after your workers, and they work harder and better for you.”

“Like I said. Replaceable.”

A shiver went down Jemma’s spine at the gleeful edge to his voice.

Bakshi leaned forward. “You could always Speculate to recoup your losses from the fans.”

“You know I won’t put my workers’ livelihoods at risk over a gamble.” 

Jemma remembered the story of his father and wondered if that was the only reason.

“It’s hardly a gamble,” Bakshi scoffed.

“Could you guarantee the investment would turn a profit?”

“Well, it doesn’t really work like that.”

Mr. Fitz said nothing, just watched Bakshi over the rim of his glass.

“Did I hear right? You designed a fan?” her father asked. Jemma smiled at him thankfully.

“Yes, it helps suck the cotton fibres out of the air to protect the workers’ lungs.”

“Sounds like a very worthy, Christian endeavour.”

Mr. Fitz tilted his head in acknowledgement. From there, the conversation moved on to other, safer topics. Jemma found herself not saying much, still feeling at sea from her earlier near-outburst. Without Mr. Fitz’s provoking attitude, she didn’t feel particularly inspired to engage, and participated almost listlessly.

His words had caused an uncomfortable upheaval in her mind that lasted well past the time she finally tucked herself into bed. Fitz was an enigma to her. He was a cautious man who made rash decisions in heated moments. He seemed to hold no animosity towards Coulson, his opponent in the strike, and yet he was immovable in his decision not to grant him his wishes.

Jemma could admit to herself that she admired his stance on Speculation. It was the most responsible view to take. And while she supported the workers in their strike, she also understood Mr. Fitz’s point of view. And it was endlessly maddening.

She eventually fell asleep, dreaming of blue eyes and white cotton.


End file.
